


I know everything  Everything you do  Everywhere you go  Everyone you know

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [6]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 00:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17756723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Sonny has Rudy's son.But why does Vinnie stay with him?





	I know everything  Everything you do  Everywhere you go  Everyone you know

"Say hello to your son for me," Carlotta said, laughing, as she put down the phone.

It was Tuesday morning, nearly lunchtime. Rudy had just come in from watering his tomato plants.  He gave his wife a puzzled look.  "Who was that?"

Carlotta laughed again.  "That was Mr. Holliston."

A faint alarm went off in Rudy's head.  He moved up behind her and put his arms around her.  "Mr. Holliston?  Is this something I should be worried about?"

Carlotta slapped his hand.  "Don't be ridiculous."

"But who is Mr. Holliston? And how do you know his son?"

"Mr. Holliston is a very nice man who is covering from a serious illness that's affected his eyesight.  He's called several times in the last week."

The alarm wasn't so faint anymore.  Rudy kept his voice casual.  "Why is he calling you?"

"He isn't.  His son's telephone number is one digit off from ours, and he isn't very good at dialing the phone yet."

"How many times have you spoken to him?" Rudy asked, "For you to know so much about him?"

"He wanted to explain why he kept calling and I thought it was funny, that his last name was the same as the street I used to live on, and we got to chatting.  His son, Danny, is looking after him, but he has to go to work.  So Mr. Holliston calls every day to check in."

Danny.  Holliston.  The alarm was loud now.  Still, he kept his voice casual even as he tightened his arms around Carlotta.  "He calls you every day at this same time?"

"No, Rudy, he calls his son every day at this same time.  Sometimes he gets me by mistake."

"What a happy mistake," Rudy murmured.

Carlotta laughed.

 

The next day when the phone rang, Carlotta was at the grocery.  The milk she had bought the day before had inexplicably gone sour.

"Hello," Rudy said politely.  His heart was hammering.

"Finally."  But the voice was Steelgrave's, not Vincenzo's. And Rudy's heart plummeted while his anger soared.

"You've been calling my home? Talking to my wife?"

"You don't have an office, where am I supposed to call you?" Steelgrave yelled back.  "Don't you ever answer your own phone? Or talk to your wife?"

Rudy wasn't used to being yelled at—except, occasionally, by his wife.  "Where is Vincenzo?"

"Waiting in the car.  Look, I want to explain what happened—"

"I know what happened!  You abducted my son!"

Steelgrave had the nerve to laugh.  "Yeah.  I've got him and I'm keeping him. The question is, what are you going to do?"

"I found you when everyone thought you were dead," Rudy said. "Do you think I can't find you now?"

"Probably.  But he knows how to dial a phone.  I'm not watching him 24 hours a day.  Why hasn't he called you?  Why hasn't he split? He could drive off right now, the keys are in the ignition."

Rudy didn't have an answer for that.

"He's off the meds.  There were a few rough weeks with the Dalmane, but he's off it.  He's putting on weight.  He—"

"You used my son's name!" Rudy heard himself howling words he never intended to say.

"I was sending you a message!  It was either this or leave the country!  I won't go to war with you, I don't have the manpower, but we can disappear, if that's what you want!"

"I want my son back!"

The line went dead.

 

The next day there was no call.  For the next week, there was no call.  Rudy had had the calls traced; they came from payphones in Chicago, at O'Hare.  Could Steelgrave really be such a fool, that he'd be hiding out in Chicago?

 

On the next Wednesday, the phone rang at 11:57.  Carlotta, who had worried about Mr. Holliston, answered immediately.  But it wasn't him; it was a different wrong number.  "Word must be out about how friendly you are," Rudy teased her, though his heart was heavy.

 

When the phone rang around the same time the next day, Rudy made sure to answer in the bedroom.

"What kind of game is this?" he asked, keeping his voice low.  Carlotta was in the kitchen, making lunch.

"It's not a game!  I thought you wanted to know how he is—"

"I want him back."

"Then we have nothing to talk about," Steelgrave said, then, not to him, "Yeah, get me one, too."

"What?  Is he there?"

"He doesn't want to talk to you," Steelgrave said, "and I'm not gonna make him. He'll do it when he's ready.  We're at the airport.  Now, are you and me going to negotiate, or are him and me going to get on a plane?"

Rudy said nothing.  He knew he should keep his temper, but this was infuriating and if he opened his mouth, he was going to start yelling.  Vincenzo was right there and Steelgrave wouldn't let him talk to him!  And why?  That was what he didn't understand.  Why was Vincenzo so angry with him?  Why did he stay with Steelgrave instead of coming home?  Rudy had tried to work out the logistics of how Steelgrave could be keeping him against his will, and much as he wanted to believe that, nothing about it made sense.  Pooch had had a terrible time with him even with the Dalmane and other drug.

He could be lying about that.  Yes, he could, but even then, they'd had to shut off the phone service to keep Vincenzo from calling—

Rudy wasn't even sure who he'd been trying to call.

In the background, Rudy heard Steelgrave mutter something he couldn't understand and Vincenzo laughed, sending an icy spike through his heart.

"Yeah," Steelgrave said into the phone. "Well, you got a time you want me to call back?"  When he didn't say anything, Steelgrave said, "The only reason you got a second chance is my respect for you.  I don't have to give you a third."

"Friday afternoons," Rudy said.  "She plays Mahjong."

"Then you stay home Fridays," Steelgrave said and hung up.

 

Rudy Aiuppo was not an unsophisticated man.

He knew about human depravity; he'd made his living off it, and a very good living it had been.  And he'd imbibed until he was intoxicated; he'd bedded some prostitutes; he'd gambled (a little).  He'd even used cocaine a couple of times. None of it meant any more to him than the canapes at a dinner party; they were social vices one indulged in.  Given his druthers, Rudy would have preferred either a quiet night at home with his wife, or one with some of his real friends; even in a business where friendship was a liability, he did have a couple of them.  He'd kept them by keeping them out of the business.  If he did one of them a favor, it was a real favor, with no score keeping.

It was the only way to be safe.

At one time, Rudy's organization had provided protection to a dozen gay bars throughout New York.  He'd  never handled that directly and as long as it made him money without being too dangerous, he didn't give it much thought—

"Rudy.  What are you thinking about?"

Carlotta liked to keep track of where his mind went.  She didn't want him brooding.  It was a silly thing to worry about; Rudy had never been a brooder.  This was what he got for woolgathering over dinner.

Still, he told her the truth.  "Caterina Renzitto."

Carlotta frowned.  "Catherine Renzitto was a fool," she announced, as though handing down words from the mount.  Rudy didn't argue with her and after a moment she asked, "Why were you thinking about her?"

"She was a fine-looking woman," Rudy said, as though this answer were self-evident.  "Lovely eyes, as I recall—"  But he couldn't go on teasing her, not with the hurt he saw in Carlotta's own eyes.  He patted her hand.  "Why would I want to think about another woman when I have you?" he asked.

"Then why were you thinking of her?" Carlotta asked, quite reasonably, really.

"I was wondering how her son turned out."

Carlotta went back to her penne.  "She never belonged in our neighborhood."  That seemed to close the subject.

Caterina Renzitto had been married to Tonio Renzitto for six years when she came to him asking a favor.  She was a quiet, self-contained woman who seldom smiled but never seemed to frown.  Speaking in a calm, detached voice, she told her oblique story.  Her husband had turned out to be a disappointment.  A divorce was antithetical to her desired outcome for several reasons: she would be free of him, but because of the way he had hidden his money, she would be left in poverty; the reason she wanted rid of him would be made public; and, worst of all, while she would be free, her son would not be.

Rudy listened, said suitably sympathetic words, wondering just what Tonio had done that his wife felt she needed him obliterated from from her world.

"There is a half a million dollar insurance policy," she said at last.  "I could easily live out the rest of my life with only half of that."

So.  Caterina didn't just want permission to have her husband killed.  She wanted Rudy to do it. But he still didn't know why.

They sat in silence for several moments, Rudy asking no questions, Caterina giving no clues.  Omerta at its finest.

"You would need to watch out for Jacky Nights," Caterina said at last.  That was all, but something about the way she said it—

"John di Notte," Rudy clarified.  "He's been with Tonio a long time."

"Yes," Caterina said simply. "He's been with him.  A long time."

They sat in silence again.  She had said everything she was going to say.  Rudy was not going to accept her offer, but he was having a little trouble putting that into words.  After a few moments, she added, "Tonio thinks he knows a lot.  He talks big, but really, he knows next to nothing, only about what he's personally involved in.  There's no reason anybody would want to keep him quiet.  But he brags too much about how much cash he carries."

"That's asking for trouble," Rudy said gravely.

"I've told him, but he doesn't listen."  After another silence, Caterina gathered up her purse and coat.  "Thank you for taking the time to see me," she said.  Rudy rose, saying the appropriate things, and walked her to the door.

Six months later, while Caterina and her son, Serafino, were in South Boston visiting family, there was an accident with the gas stove and both Tonio and Jacky Night were asphyxiated.  Luckily, they were the only fatalities.  Luckily, the gas didn't explode, blowing up the whole neighborhood.  Caterina and Serafino weren't due home for another three days, but Tonio had missed dropping of his payment and someone came looking for him.

Her nerve took Rudy's breath away.  He wouldn't even let himself think about the logistics of how she had managed this.

A month after the large, expensive Catholic funeral for her husband, Caterina Renzitti put her house on the market and moved with her son to Hyde Park.  She never returned to her husband's neighborhood.  When the house was searched, all the cash he'd socked away was found.  Caterina wanted there to be no reason for anyone to ever come looking for her.

Did anyone guess that she had killed her fanook husband? Did they even guess that his death hadn't been accidental, or that he'd been a fanook?  Rudy had heard nothing.

Until then, it had never occurred to Rudy you couldn't tell one when you saw him.  And sometimes he wondered if maybe he'd gotten her message wrong.  Maybe that wasn't why she wanted him dead.  Or maybe she hadn't killed him; maybe she had threatened him with exposure and he and Jacky Nights took the easy way out.  Mostly, Rudy tried not to think about it at all.

And that was easy enough to do for nearly twenty years, until his son came home from being abducted, so sick they didn't think he would live.

He wasn't able to stay with Vincenzo as much has he would have liked, not without letting Carlotta know what was happening.  In place of the truth, he told her a story about Pooch's sick mother.  That wasn't a complete lie; although Pooch's mother was in good health, she was 98 years old.  And Pooch did worry about her, and if there had been a crisis, Rudy would have gone with him.  Pooch had always been loyal to him; what else could he do?

So mostly it was Pooch who looked after Vincenzo after his release from the clinic.  And it was Pooch who told Rudy who Vincenzo talked to when he was alone—and what talked about.

"I think maybe the kid needs some stronger drugs," Pooch told him after the first week alone with Vincenzo.  His discomfort vibrated through the wires clear from Brooklyn to Phoenix. "Or maybe some'a that electric shock stuff."

"What?  Why would you say that?" Rudy asked, alarmed.

"He's talkin' so outta his head, it gives me the creeps."

"He was held captive and tortured," Rudy scolded him.  "I don't doubt that most of his memories are horrendous."

"No, it's not like that," Pooch said, then he made some frustrated sounds.

"Then what is it like?" Rudy asked patiently.  Pooch was hardly qualified for the assignment he'd been given, except in one respect: his loyalty.

"It's all'a this—it's all'a this fag stuff!" The words exploded out of Pooch, propelled by severe embarrassment.

"What?" Rudy asked stupidly.  "What are you talking about?"

"He's talking to a guy," Pooch said.  "He's sayin'—stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff!" Pooch insisted. Stuff seemed to be about as specific as he could get, but after a few moments of stuttering around he added,  "Fag stuff," he said again. "Like, he did—stuff—with this guy."

"What guy?" Rudy asked.  In retrospect, he had no idea why that mattered.

There was a long pause, filled with Pooch's heavy, unsteady breathing.  "I think it's that Steelgrave guy, the one that bought it," he said at last.

"Pooch, they were friends.  Vincenzo mourns him."

"Yes, Don Aiuppo."

Rudy recognized that tone; it was disturbingly similar to the one his wife—both of his wives—used and had used when they had decided to stop arguing with him, even though they both knew perfectly well he was wrong.  Rudy let it go.

 

The next time Rudy went to check on Vincenzo, Pooch had a notebook for him.  It was one of those tiny old spiral bound ones, no bigger than a playing card, and the paper was so fragile, Rudy was pretty sure it wasn't just the kind they'd used back in the day, but one Pooch had left over from his bookmaking days.

"I been writing down what the kid says."

Rudy nearly scolded him.  Writing things down was nearly always a bad idea.  But when he looked inside, he found, in Pooch's tiny, careful print, pages of his old code, another holdover from his bookmaking days.  Rudy smiled, and instead of scolding him, he told Pooch he'd done a good job.

Vincenzo was sleeping.  Pooch went to the kitchen to make him some food.  Rudy made himself comfortable in Vincenzo's one good chair and began to read.

He hadn't gotten very far when Pooch brought him a glass and a bottle of grappa, and that was good because Rudy really needed a drink.  "You weren't wrong," he said softly.  Pooch left the room without saying anything.

He found words of love, words of agony, words of longing, words of despair.  These stream of consciousness words were like a confession and Rudy felt sick reading them.  Initially it was disgust, but it was impossible to read this heartfelt pain without feeling something tender.  Maybe he wouldn't have when he was younger, running the world, but now he was an old man and his son's pain broke his heart. And a realization hit him: this was why Vincenzo had been so furious with him when he'd betrayed the Commission; in that act, he saw a mirror of his own betrayal of Steelgrave.  His real anger had been with himself.

The rest of it—Rudy didn't know what to think of the rest of it.  He didn't believe his son was a fanook—the boy had been engaged to a beautiful woman!  But these words were not open to interpretation.  It made no sense.

And Steelgrave—he'd met him maybe once or twice, had found him neither memorable nor interesting.  He'd certainly never heard anything to lead him to believe Steelgrave was anything but a real man—that would certainly have been memorable.  And yet he'd committed suicide when he found he'd been betrayed by Vincenzo.

He just hadn't done it successfully.

When that little piece of information had been brought to him, that Sonny Steelgrave was not dead, not in Witness Protection, but happily free and living in Los Angeles, Rudy had had no particular use for it.  He hadn't even met Vincenzo at that point, and although his source was reliable enough, who knew if it was true?   But he'd kept it to himself, and told his source to do the same.  He hadn't even told Pooch.  Trustworthy as he was, this kind of story would be hard to keep to oneself.

This seemed like the time to put it to good use.  If Vincenzo's pain was caused by his guilt over Steelgrave's death, Steelgrave could alleviate that guilt.  Once Vincenzo was relieved of his burden, it would be a simple matter to send Steelgrave on his way.  He was a smart man; he'd know better than to stay where he wasn't wanted.  And if he needed either the carrot or the stick to persuade him, Rudy had both at his disposal.

Only things hadn't quite worked out.  First, Vincenzo thought Steelgrave's presence was part of one of his dreams.  Then he decided they were all dead and in purgatory.  Instead of making the situation better, Steelgrave was making it worse.  And just when Rudy was about to give him some cash and thank him for his trouble, he disappeared into the night—with Vincenzo.

Vincenzo had been different after Steelgrave's arrival; he'd shown a certain manic giddiness.  Instead of sullen and barely awake, he'd been loud and provocative, like a teenager who'd gotten too big to be whipped.  His anger at Rudy had changed as well; in place of dull, sarcastic resentment, he displayed the attitude of a young lion, anxious to challenge the head of the pride.  Was that Steelgrave's influence?

The funny thing was, Steelgrave seemed to respect him as Vincenzo never had.  Rudy had heard he was old school.  He was still trying to negotiate an accord in a fairly respectful matter.  This whole situation was insane.  Why was Steelgrave risking his life this way?

Rudy considered calling Frank.  Vincenzo had insisted he not, insisted it was too dangerous—though he never said who it was dangerous for.  Did he not trust Frank?  That was hard to believe.  Frank was his best friend.  Wasn't he? But while Rudy believed Frank would do anything for Vincenzo, he wasn't sure how far he would step outside his role as an officer of the court.  And involving the police, the government, didn't seem like a good idea, not with the way Vincenzo was behaving.  Just like his organization, they protected their own, but they also knew when to cut their losses and make a sacrifice.

Rudy wanted somebody to talk to, but there was no one.  Priests, lawyers, and doctors were the only ones you could be sure wouldn't rat you out, and only within certain perimeters.

But a lawyer was worthless in this situation; what would a lawyer know about how to handle it when your son took up with a fanook?  Tell you to write him out of your will?  Rudy laughed mirthlessly.

And a priest was no better.  It was no secret what the Catholic Church thought of people like that.  What could they advise?  Pray for him?  Disown him?  Rudy already did the former, as did Carlotta.  And even if Rudy had been willing to do the latter, you couldn't really disown someone you'd never owned to begin with.

A doctor might help, only from what Rudy understood, they made their decisions on who was crazy and who wasn't based on a book of symptoms they compiled.  There was nothing wrong with that, only the book kept changing because every so often they'd take a vote.  How could you determine mental illness based on a popularity contest?  Being a fag had been taken out of the book—now they said that was fine, that the only reason fags killed themselves was the way they were treated by the rest of the world.

Rudy didn't believe that was the only reason, but he had to admit, it would be a hard life. Why anyone chose it was beyond him.

He certainly had no friends he could talk to.  That would just be asking for trouble.  He knew what the repercussions would be if any friend of ours found out about Vincenzo.

Especially since Rudy had been considered soft on the subject.  He required proof before he'd sanction a man being taken out.  It was too easy to throw accusations around just to remove an obstacle.  And even the few deaths he had permitted, he'd ordered that no message be left.  A bullet in the brain was enough without any baroque flourishes.

Why had Steelgrave taken Vincenzo?  What did he hope to accomplish?  Was this some kind of power play?  But how would that work, when the world thought him dead? Rudy couldn't resurrect him from the grave and give him a seat at the table, even if he wasn't queer.  What the hell was he thinking?

And why had Vincenzo gone with him, and why did he stay?  From what Pooch had said, the only reason Vincenzo tried to leave the house was to harm himself.  By now, he could be dead if he chose, if Steelgrave didn't intervene, so what was this all about?  It made no sense!

He'd played on Steelgrave's affection for Vincenzo and his shame over the defilement of that affection to get him to come to Brooklyn with him.  He'd thought it some kind of anomaly, inexplicable on Steelgrave's part, with Vincenzo going along to keep his cover and make his case, left with guilt and shame when Steelgrave died. Rudy had other threats at his disposal, but he hadn't needed to voice them; Steelgrave had been in this life too long not to recognize the precariousness of his situation.

Which explained nothing!  Why would he risk angering Rudy to take Vincenzo with him—especially in his damaged, unwieldy, uncooperative condition?  It was insane.  There was no logical explanation.

"Pooch," Rudy called.  "Come in here." Carlotta would be home in an hour.  It didn't look like Steelgrave was going to call.

"Yeah, Don Aiuppo?"

Rudy supposed that even if he wanted him to, there was no way Pooch could drop the formality.  They had been together—how long?  How long?  Pooch stood patiently waiting while Rudy thought through the years, did the arithmetic.  It had been 1967 when Pooch, 24, 25 years old, came to work for him.  Capuzzi had recommended him.  "Not bright," he'd said, "but loyal."  Which meant he was never going to be an earner and if he was going to stay in the life, he'd need to be somebody's pet.  Pets were usually family or old friends, but sometimes a pet could double as a guard dog.  Poochy—he'd already been called that, his full name was Giacomo Puccini Pompio—had been exactly that, and Rudy had never been sorry he'd taken him on as his driver.  He made a little book, he did Rudy's errands, he looked after things.  And he kept his mouth shut.

"Pooch, sit down."  Rudy motioned to the chair next to the bedroom door.  Pooch looked confused, went to sit, looked at Rudy again, the pulled the chair closer, understanding this wasn't about guarding the doorway.

Rudy didn't want to do this.  It was going to embarrass both of them.  "Have you ever known one of them?" And before he could answer, Rudy added, "I mean, known for absolutely sure, someone you knew."

Pooch looked at him with his loyal dog's eyes.  "Known who, Don Aiuppo?"  And although Rudy had been deliberately vague, Pooch took the confusion as his own failing.

"A fanook."

Pooch flushed a deep red.  This was how all men reacted to this subject: embarrassment, anger, disgust—this was how a real man felt about it, and that was the way it should be.  But it made Rudy's information-gathering more difficult.  "What're you saying?" Pooch's voice was a squeak of betrayal.

"Do you understand why Vincenzo is staying with Steelgrave?" Rudy asked, bounding ahead several steps.

"The kid's not in good shape," Pooch said.  "He don't know what's what."

That wasn't really an answer, and it didn't seem to satisfy Pooch any more than it did Rudy.  "You remember what a time you had, keeping him in the house," Rudy  said, and seeing the hurt come into Pooch's face, he added, "You did a fine job.  But you know how difficult it was.  I don't understand how Salvatore keeps Vincenzo with him if he doesn't want to be there.  And I don't understand why he wants to be there.  I need to understand."

Pooch nodded.  "So you think Steelgrave's got him thinking he's a fag too."  Sonny's nature had been determined, as far as Pooch was concerned.  whatever the situation was, st as e was responsible for it. 

Rudy pressed the first two fingers of both hands against the spot just above the bridge of his nose and rubbed.  "I don't know.  Salvatore says he's doing better.  But even if he's lying—how would he be keeping Vincenzo cooperative, if he didn't want to be?  You  know how willful the boy is."

Pooch nodded.

"And he seemed—happier when Salvatore arrived.  Harder to handle, but more his old self."

"You don't think he's one too, do you?"  Pooch said it as softly as though the house was bugged.

"I don't know," Rudy admitted, just as softly. Maybe if they didn't say it too loud, it wouldn't be true. "There's too much I don't know.  You didn't answer my question."

"Yeah," Pooch said, and it was both an acknowledgement and a response.  "Timmy Four-Eyes, he was one.  Him and me went to school together, we were—he was—" Pooch couldn't bring himself to say they had been friends, but he also couldn't bring himself to lie about their friendship.

Rudy nodded his understanding.  "You never said."  It was not a reproach.

"You always said, you needed proof before you—" Pooch's hands made an indefinite gesture, filling in the words.  "And, you know, I kinda—I mean, he was an OK guy, for one'a them.  I didn't want—"

"I understand."  Rudy wanted to put his hand on Pooch's knee, but the topic of their conversation made that impossible. It would make physical contact between them uncomfortable for weeks.

Timmy Four-Eyes had been a good earner.  He put money on the street, made his collections, never brought back an excuse instead of cash.  Nobody ever complained about him, not that Rudy had ever heard.  Then he took sick with some kind of cancer and just disappeared.  Rudy only now realized what he really had.

There were things Rudy needed to know, things he couldn't ask Pooch if for no other reason than that Pooch wouldn't know either.  Who would know?

Steelgrave didn't call that week.  Rudy spent the next seven days searching his mind for someone he could talk to about this situation.  He failed to come up with anyone.

Steelgrave didn't call the next week or the week after that.

 

The phone rang.  Rudy picked up the receiver.  "Hello?"

"He's better," Steelgrave said quickly, as though he expected Rudy to hang up on him.

Rudy analyzed this statement while Steelgrave gave a more detailed account of Vincenzo's progress.  He was eating, he was exercising, he was sleeping through the night.  Bathing was no issue, but he didn't want to shave—

"Why are you doing this?" Rudy interrupted him.

There was a long silence.  "What?"  Steelgrave didn't sound like he understood the question.

"Why have you taken him?  Why are you keeping him?"

"You said he wasn't getting any better under your care," Steelgrave said with careful civility.  "You were getting ready to lock him up someplace and I couldn't let you do that—"

"Why not?" Rudy asked.

"What?" Again the question made no sense, but this time it also seemed to offend him.

"Why couldn't you let me do it? What difference does it make to you?”

Steelgrave took a deep breath, let it out on an unwilling laugh.  "Because I care deeply for him." he said, really  laughing now.  "There're a lot of things I admire about him—"

In the background, Rudy would have sworn he heard Vincenzo laughing. What was funny about this? They sounded like two teenagers making a prank call, but what was the joke?  Then he heard something that sounded like the receiver being dropped, and Vincenzo's voice. "Moron."

"Quit shoving!" Steelgrave answered, and picked up the receiver. "But, you know, he screwed up—"

"All the things you don't remember, but you remember that," Vincenzo said.

"Hey, I'm on the phone here!"  

It wasn't just Vincenzo who sounded different. They didn't sound like—they sounded like kids. Not just Vincenzo, but Steelgrave too. Not sick, not deviants—kids, goofing around. 

Rudy didn't know enough to know what that meant.

He hung up the phone and looked at the clock.  Carlotta wouldn't be home for at least another hour.  That was good.  Rudy poured himself a glass of grappa from the bottle he kept in the back of his nightstand.

Well, he thought with some despair, at least Vincenzo sounded happy


End file.
